


and there was nothing but the forest

by The_Real_Squoose



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gothic, Horror, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Squoose/pseuds/The_Real_Squoose
Summary: The flowers on the dresser crumble like ashes between my fingers, the dark stains on the wood never fade. Outside the window I see the road nobody ever travels down, even I'm not sure where they lead- and past that a field of dead corn, our only defense from the forest that seems to loom closer every day.





	and there was nothing but the forest

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

I can hear the grandfather clock in the hall as I say my goodbyes to another family member.

“Take this pie, dear,” she says. I take it and thank her, passing it off to a man behind me- his hair is grey and his eyes are unsmiling.  I smell wet leaves and earth as I hug her. She smiles- yellow teeth and pale gums- thin lips and wrinkled skin. I do not recognize her face.

The next one steps up.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

It has been two hours. There are still people at the house- lingering in the hall or sitting quietly in the living room as the TV plays static.

I cut open the pie and later dare to take a bite. Not chicken. Not beef or pork. The meat tastes strange- foreign and seasoned too much to cover up the flavor. The man hovers behind me, and I give him the slice. He takes it to the living room and sits in the old rocking chair in the corner- I ignore the quiet creaking and bring him the rest of the pie. He eats it slowly. Piece by piece by piece.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

There is a piano in the foyer. A woman in a deep purple dress sits on the bench with a spine like a ruler and a smile like a cemetery gate- I shiver, feeling as if the spirits of the dead have made a leap for my soul. She asks me to play.

I sit down beside her gingerly. Her hands settle over mine- cold and bony, they guide my fingers to the keys and only release them when I begin to plonk away a familiar tune. She closes her eyes and hums along to a slow, eerie tune.

When I am finished she turns that smile to me again and thanks me for playing her favorite song.

I do not remember ever having learned.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

I do not recall ever having seen my mother’s room.

She stays in there whenever she can- only coming out to get the door on occasion, to sweep a room or cook a meal. I wonder when the last time she showered was.

I eat everything she makes dutifully and thank her before she disappears upstairs again. Once a month she goes out to the shed in the backyard- another place I have never ventured to, and pulls out a burlap bag of tools. I kneel in the front yard with her and pretend to pull weeds out from around flowers that are already long dead.

I water the flowers- spray down the grass and pretend it is fertile and green like the trees.

It seems like the tree line creeps closer every day- so far still a good distance away in the expanse of corn fields- but growing nearer steadily. My mother peers at it with unease- though her lips are pursed and tight and she does not comment, I can see a twinge of fear in her eyes.

She turns back to the ‘gardening’ with shaking hands.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

The summer started a long time ago- I don’t remember when.

My friends don’t visit often, and I myself never go out. My mother always claims that there is trouble with the car, or it’s too late, or the weather too strong, or she needs my help with something and I can go another time. I never leave.

Once every few weeks a boy in dark blue shorts and a crisp white shirt knocks on our door and delivers groceries. Whatever I need he has in his basket- a new pair of socks, a hairbrush, shampoo- a pale pink nightgown my mother showed me in a magazine just yesterday turns up with him today. She asks me if I’m happy with it- I pretend to love it and she goes back into the house, satisfied.

I place the contents of the basket inside and stand on the porch with him. His black shoes are covered in mud and there is no indication of any mode of transportation to be seen. He has warm, honest eyes and a smile kinder than any I’ve seen before. Hair combed and gelled down carefully, a tie high and tight on his throat. Messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a single black pin on it- no inscription.

He doesn’t speak. He’s never spoken before and he doesn’t say anything today- just sits beside me on the porch step and picks at the dead grass on our lawn. I knock my knee against his and fix a stray hair- we carry a conversation with our eyes and he gives me that smile again.

The sun is setting when he gets up, laying a hand on my shoulder and nodding his head towards the door. I go inside and turn the locks.  _ Click.  _ One.  _ Click.  _ Two.  _ Chink!  _ The last one is slid into place and I turn down the latch until the metal makes a quiet sound.

I watch him from the window- he walks slowly, steps careful and even- not towards the road in the distance, but through the field and towards the woods. They are the only thing alive around here- there are no crickets chirping or birds singing or coyotes howling from afar- only silence. The ivy crawling up the side of the house is dead. The grass is dead. The flowers sitting in a vase on my bedroom table are dead. The corn stalks stretching as far as the eye can see are dead. The trees are huge and towering and green and alive.

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

It has been a very long time since anyone has come to see me.

_ Ding-dong! _

I am startled from my place in the rocking chair- curled up with a blanket crocheted for me by another person with a blurry face and a scent of leaves- and a worn book found in a trunk downstairs.

I hurry to the door- it has only been a few days but I wonder if it is the boy anyways.

When I open it a girl with pale blonde hair peers up at me through her lashes. Her dress is a light blue, reaching well below her knees, almost brushing the tops of her bare, dirt-smeared feet. My heart plummets at first- but the familiarity of her taking my hand and stepping inside without invitation lifts it again. I hug her and smile- seeing nothing returned in those steely blue eyes but not caring.

I shut the door again and lead her through the living room and up the stairs. In my room she stares out the window, finger poised over the glass.

“Do they ever harvest the corn?” She asks quietly. I stand beside her and wrap my arms around her waist, breathing in the smell of lavender perfume that seems to fade with each passing moment. I look out at the field and try to push aside the memories of the stalks rustling at night- as if someone is walking among them. I cannot remember how long they have been there. I do not want them to go- for it would be much harder to feign ignorance to whatever lurks outside. I tell her that I do not know.

“Where’s your father at?” She asks, looking at me levelly, eyes searching my face as if for some answer I’ve long buried. I take pause at this again, for I haven’t considered him in a long time. Where is he? I haven’t heard anything about it. Who is he? I try to call his face to mind but the image slips between my fingers like water and I make peace with forgetting. When and why did he leave? I do not remember. I tell her that I do not know.

“Did you make this?” She asks, fingering the feathers, beads, and little bones dangling on leather cords from a dreamcatcher. It’s a pretty thing- the top decorated with a star made of twine and beads strung inside the circular frame. I hadn’t thought about it- had forgotten it existed. I couldn’t recall when I put it up or when I made it or what from or who might’ve given it to me. I ended the train of thought as quickly as it began. I tell her that I do not know.

“How long have you been here?” She asks, staring at a box full of journals, pulling one out and thumbing through the pages. Each is filled with little facts or equations and random passages of writing and doodles of flowers and swirling lines. Occasionally a date is marked, but I do not know how long I’ve been writing in the journals for and I do not know the current date. She pulls out another- it’s full of unreadable scribbles in dark ink, repeating the same phrase over and over before dropping off into blank pages and the occasional doodle of a flower or large chatoyant eyes. I snatch the book and shove it back in among the others, pushing the cardboard lid in place and slathering on an extra layer of ignorance. I don’t want answers- I only want some small peace of mind. Those blue eyes look concerned now. I tell her that I do not know.

“You should come with me. . .” she says as she leaves. For a brief moment I consider it- just a quick trip, a drive into town or a sleepover with an old friend. I hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Maybe another time,” I answer, she opens her mouth in protest-  _ knock. Knock.  _ Her face shuts down and her eyes turn cold like a gate slamming closed. When I hug her there is no smell of lavender- only rotten leaves and dirt. My mother escorts her through the house, the back of her head visible from the window as she watches my friend go. After a few moments she retreats inside, but my eyes are caught for longer- seeing her pale hair seem to turn white as she walks towards the forest- I close the blinds.


End file.
